The Burning Wastes
by Will Freedom
Summary: The story of some of the most evil Raiders the Capitol Wasteland will ever see.  These chapters could have been interspersed with the story of Linden, but the style is so different that they need their own venue.  But their paths will cross!
1. Chapter I

There is no mercy where they are.

There is no grace, no beauty, no laughter save that which is cruel. There is no light save what is reflected from the silvery metal barrels of their ever-present flamethrowers onto the faces of tormentors and victims alike and the unseeing, uncaring rock walls of their subterranean hideaway that so effectively swallow up the screams.

There is no warmth save that of the fires they worship, every licking tongue of flame a sacred thing; whenever they go raiding, at least three of their number are left behind to guard the bonfire that they all vow never to allow to be extinguished. They believe that fire long ago scourged the land to make it clean and so they attempt, in their small yet substantially horrible way, to do the same: to the land, its inhabitants, and each other. There is not one of them unmarred in many places by the lumpy shininess of old burn scars, the lumpy pustulence of new burns, or both. They, more than any other inhabitant of the Wastes, are purely a product of their environment, and they rejoice in their resemblance to it as well.

There is no love where they are; no joy save that of the quick release as they bugger each other in quick, quiet couplings, or ravage one of their prisoners.

There are no manners here, no sharing, no gentility, no empathy. There is most assuredly no compassion. They are all men, all lean, strong, hard men, made so by the desperate deprivations of their environment and the disgusting depredations of their fellows. In a land this inimicable to life, this adverse to survival, simply being strong is no longer enough to survive. Their lives have taught them that being selfish, vicious, and pitiless are also necessary.

Of their victims, women are arguably the lucky ones. This Raider gang is known as the Flamers for two reasons - their predilections and their weapon of choice – and they are the ultimate misogynists, usually killing females out of hand without even bothering to torture them. Of course, being burned alive has rarely been considered a merciful death, so some girls may have briefly rejoiced in their brief captivity, especially considering how indifferently the Flamers treat them; until being sold into slavery, to vanish behind the rusty walls of Paradise Falls to whatever fate awaits them there, where they may compare the various merits of each potential end.

One such woman is approaching their hideout even now, slowly edging her way down the defile towards the cave mouth in the cliff face she vaguely remembers living in for a month when she was perhaps ten years old. She moves slowly not out of a desire for self-preservation, for she cannot imagine her next life being any worse than this one, and she fully believes she will be reborn into this Wasteland. She moves slowly not out of reluctance to confront the Flamers again, for she fears nothing more than her current master. She moves with care only so that she can live to complete her mission; if the Flamers receive her message and decide to kill her anyway, she will not have displeased him.

But she thinks they will not kill her. She knows they will not remember her, for she remembers them; remembers who they are, and what they like, and what they did to her brother. He was only two years older than her when they were taken, though he aged a year for every day thereafter.

But that was ten years ago now, so she reckons, ten years of her life spent fighting to stay alive, and sometimes, if she tries very hard, she can just barely remember his face. She knows he was still alive when they sold her, but by that time she was dead to him.

The wan moonlight illuminates the narrow path across the side of the cliff that an observer from below would swear wasn't there. It picks out the sad figure of a girl once named Sonia from a settlement once named Summervale, and occasionally gleams dully off her black armour, highlighting the contrast between that and the stylized white talon painted on the breastplate. It does not, however, enter the cave wherein the fires flicker. There is no illumination where they are.


	2. Chapter II

The leader of this band of pederasts styles himself Click. His is a simple world, one that has hurt him very badly, so he lashes back out at it whenever the opportunity presents itself, repaying pain with injury time and again.

Currently, he is sitting before the largest of the three fires that burn in this cave, staring into the flames. Every now and then, he reaches up to touch the side of his head where hair cannot grow, then runs his fingers through what hair he does have. He hasn't cut it since he assumed command, so it falls well past his shoulder now, though it only grows from the unmarred side, the right side. Unfortunately, by the standards of the Wasteland, he is getting old; his hair is starting to thin.

Still, there's a lot of fight left in him.

As Sonia makes her way to the final approach to their cave entrance, word is brought to him. He ponders this development for a long moment, then orders her brought in, to be granted an audience before the Main Flame. He very nearly did not – he is not fond of Talon Company these days – as he would have enjoyed sending Commander Jabsco a message written on her flesh, and maybe he wouldn't even have bothered sending the rest of her back with it. He makes a mental note to keep that option in reserve. Whether or not she keeps the flesh will depend on her; whether or not they write a message on it will remain at his discretion.

She is led before him, and he confirms her gender with disgust. For a moment, he wonders whether Jabsco is intentionally insulting him, then smiles faintly as he thinks about what would have happened to a male operative. Jabsco may be an asshole, but like any good commander, he cares about his men, and wouldn't turn a message delivery into a suicide mission.

Sonia, for her part, wonders what Click is smiling about, and wishing he would stop, as it does unpleasant things to the scar tissue on the left side of his face, and probably does not bode well for her future. She takes a deep breath, hoping he doesn't notice how badly she is sweating already – fuck, they keep it hot in here – and launches into the message she's memorized.

"Talon Company invites you to participate in a bounty hunt. The packet I carry contains a detailed description of the quarry in question. Should you find and kill her before we do, we will split the prize with you. Please note that this individual is dangerously idealistic as well as physically dangerous; she has vowed to extinguish, quote, all flames of evil in the Capital Wasteland, unquote. I think you must know what that means. You may convey your reply by way of this operative. Respectfully yours, Commander Jabsco." Parts of this speech are egregious lies, even she can see that. She hopes beyond all reason that he doesn't take offense.

Click observes the woman for a long moment, mentally sneering at the sweat pouring off her. _Weak_, he thinks to himself, _they're all so weak._ He takes the packet she offers him, skimming through the information until he comes to the part about the money, and grunts in surprise despite himself. Pickings have been slim lately, and they are running low on a number of supplies. A good commander, he reminds himself, will put the needs of his men before anything else, and this kind of money will keep them healthy for a while. He gets to his feet and moves in close to the girl. To her credit, though there is fear in her eyes and she smells terrible, she doesn't tremble.

"Message reply for Jabsco," he says to her, staring her straight in the eye. She nods. "Flamer Company accepts your invitation, with one minor change. Should we find and kill your…Lone Wanderer…first, we take sixty-five percent of the bounty, not fifty. Don't try to tell me we'll get nothing without you, because money like this could only come from Tenpenny. Thirty-five is an excellent finder's fee, considering it's usually ten. We start the hunt this very night. Good luck to both of us. Respectfully yours, Commander Click."

Her knees want to give way beneath her. It actually looks like she will get through this alive. Maintaining eye contact with Click's right eye – the left one freaks her out, as she can't figure out what exactly is wrong with it or what must have happened to his face – she repeats his message back to him, then quietly asks if there is anything more. He shakes his head.

As she turns to leave, the two Flamers that have been standing behind her each grab one of her arms. She screams and tries to kick out at them, but they're very good at this.

"Just one small thing, actually," Click says, over the roaring of the fire that's become a roaring in her ears. "Nobody visits us and leaves without our mark. Where would you like it?"

He's holding a branding iron in the fire, she realizes. The tip of it, which is already starting to glow, looks like a stylized tongue of flame. She cannot speak.

"Tell me where, female. Or else it goes…down there," he says, gesturing at her midsection.

No…not her midsection. She stops struggling. "My shoulder," she says, weakly.

"Good girl."

Outside, the moon hides her face behind the horizon.


End file.
